A Dance With Death
by I-am-the-survivor
Summary: Joan Watson is a prolific journalist for ESPN no matter how many enemies it makes her. However, when her ex-fiancee turns up dead it's all too clear that someone is out to get her and it's Sherlock's job to find the culprit before harm can come to her next.
1. Chapter 1

**I really need to stop making promises of completion because I have the attention span of a moth. Anyways! New fic based off of if Watson were like Kirsten Stevens, Lucy Liu's character on Set It Up. So some liberties are going to be taken. Enjoy!**

Sherlock marches down the halls with the authority that he belongs in this building. He makes a mental note to leave a comment on the security, truly lackluster. He finds the office and the woman in question he's looking for with relative ease. He sighs making a move towards the glass doors. Yes, he drew the fortunate end of the deal compared to Marcus. The poor detective was breaking the news of Richard Otis to the ex-wife. He simply has to deal with the ex-fiancee.

He marches in unceremoniously much to the protests of the two women who were previously engaged in, seemingly, amicable conversation. "Joan Watson I presume?" He asks the woman sitting behind the desk.

"Who the hell are you? How did you get in here? Annalise! Your ass is so fired!" The woman barks. The other sits in the chair across from her wincing in what he believes is sympathy for this Annalise. She picks up the phone likely to dial for security.

"That won't be necessary. My name is Sherlock Holmes I am a consulting detective for the NYPD." He turns to the meek looking brunette who would be best described as a complete antithesis to Kitty. She's all soft colors and stunned looks. "Do you mind?"

"Do you mind?" Ms. Watson snaps. "We were having a meeting. You can't just barge in here like that."

"I've came to speak with you about your ex-fiancee Richard Otis." He drags out the name with a dash of disgust. He's more than aware of the man's past simply by the place he was killed.

"Rick?" She shares a look with the other woman who looks as startled as she.

"Look whatever you think he did, Rick's an asshole but he wouldn't do anything illegal right?" The brunette speaks up. "Sorry." She murmurs focusing on her computer again.

"He didn't do anything. He was murdered last night at a club he frequents downtown."

"Harper, go." The voice that once commanded the room is now laced with emotion.

"But-" The woman, Harper, stammers.

"Now." It would sound almost threatening if her voice hadn't cracked.

"I'll just…" She hurriedly packs her things. "I'll go." She points to the door before making her way out quickly.

"What do you need?" She asks with a frown. It seems she's pushed back any immediate reaction in favor of a one fitting that of a business meeting.

"I'll need your whereabouts for last night from eight until midnight as well as anyone who could vouch for an alibi."

"My assistant Annalise handles my schedule. We were both here until three in the morning last night. You could ask her or check the security feeds in the basement. In fact, I'll take you there myself." He's about to protest about the conflict of interest but she's already made up her mind and is marching out of the office. He's left to play catch up all the while partially wondering how she can walk so fast in towering heels.

She ignores the assistants multiple apologies all the while beelining to the elevators. "Ms. Watson I assure you I don't need you to guide me to the basement. I am more than capable of finding it on my own." She throws him an irritated look as the elevator doors slide open. She steps forwards but Sherlock catches her arm wrenching her back. What she'd failed to see was the elevator wasn't there at all. Loose ropes dangle in the empty elevator shaft where Watson had very nearly plummeted to her likely death considering they were on the sixteenth floor.

"What the hell!" She shouts before noticing the emptiness as well. Her eyes go wide and she immediately turns and goes back to her office without a further word. He has half a mind to follow her when he remembers the meek brunette. He pulls out his phone flicking on the flashlight and shining it down the shaft. Upon first judgement he only smells heated metal and some smoke. None of the copper or various other scents associated with a recently dead body. His sights only confirm his suspicion that nobody is at the bottom of the shaft, thankfully.

However one of the dangling ropes catches his attention. The rope doesn't have any of the frays associated with a sudden snap or time that would've unfurled the fibers. No, it looks recently cut. If he had to judge by the scent alone, he'd guess it was cut on a lower level floor. It is all too possible that the person guilty climbed up into the shaft while the elevator was in the basement and cut it there. No crash was heard otherwise panic would've erupted in the office.

Satisfied with his deduction thus far, he sends a quick text to Marcus reporting the cut wires and that he will be spending a bit more time in the office in order to inspect some potential leads. Whoever cut that line didn't want them going into the basement. He strongly doubts that it was Watson herself seeing as if he hadn't caught her she would've fallen in. The time it would take to descend seventeen flights of stairs would be more than enough time to erase any footage the actual perpetrator needs gone.

He takes wide steps back to her office to report his findings to Watson as he will likely need her help moving forwards. He strongly believes the perpetrator to be in this building so with the help of one of the heads he will no doubt be able to obtain all the records he needs. He hears her voice even before he enters demanding that maintenance place warnings on all entrances of the elevator to prevent further endangerment. He re-enters patiently waiting for her to finish on the phone before he could reveal his findings.

His eye catches a flash behind her, a red light that shone from a building on the other side of the street. From the looks of it, the building appears to be under renovation of some kind and weather would prevent anyone from working today. He spies the red light again, focusing on Watson this time who's oblivious to the sight. Three large steps get him behind her desk and yanking her out of the way of the large window before all hell breaks loose. He presses her against the furthest wall using his height and bulk to shelter her from the glass raining down on the office as bullets shatter the window where she once was standing. The phone falls amongst the wreckage and he remains holding her recounting that this is not once now but twice that he's saved this woman's life.

Someone is trying to kill Joan Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

**Kinda a short one today. I didn't want to overdue this scene and I knew I wanted it to also be it's own chapter. On top of that I'm in the smack dab middle of midterm season. Hopefully by next week (my spring break) I'll have more time to sit down and focus on something other than Anatomy.**

After carefully determining that they weren't followed Sherlock guides her to a cafe that is quite infamous for having no service. Preventing service would prevent the potential assassin from catching a ping off of Watson's phone. If it were up to him he'd simply chuck the phone out the window of a cab but according to Marcus that's destruction of property and he could be sued for that. Not that he cares about such discretions but he and the captain alike had taken far too many risks for him and Kitty. They'd turned their heads one too many times and the newest detective that he is supposed to be trailing isn't quite so fond of such practices.

Watson greets the bartender with familiarity, almost friendly. "I'm a regular." She doesn't offer further explanation but from the way her eyes dart to her computer he assumes she means this is where she comes to work when not in her office. "You're a consultant." He nods in confirmation. "Aren't you supposed to have someone with you."

"Detective Cortez got lost in traffic." He says nonchalantly. It's not an entire mistruth. She's lost in traffic on her way to the same location where Marcus and Kitty currently are. "Besides, you're not a threat."

"I'm not?" Watson hums amused. He studies her face catching the mirth in her gaze. She's teasing him.

"Not to me." Satisfied with the answer she smiles into her tea. "Richard Otis was killed at the club he frequented. It was an all males club, quite a rudimentary place. If you did kill your ex-finacee, someone would've noticed you surely." Her eyes narrow at him trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. Redness spreads across her chest; it likely wouldn't be discernable by any other, especially in contrast to her red dress.

Sherlock squints surveying the fellow patrons at the restaurant. Thus far none of them had struck particular familiarity to him and Watson seemed content in her food. She rather calmly picks at the piece of strawberry cheesecake for someone who had almost fell down an elevator shaft and got shot at in one day.

"You're going to drive whoever it is away." She notes sipping on her tea. His own drink lays forgotten, cooling in front of them.

"You say that like its an issue." He raises an eyebrow at her and she simply shrugs.

"I thought you were supposed to catch the bad guys not let them know you're onto them."

His eyes catch a man's face in the crowd of people passing the small cafe. There it is, the flash of familiarity he's been looking for. He's almost certain he saw the same man exiting the building to Watson's office as he entered. He doesn't announce his finding on the rare case that it may be a coincidence that this man is watching Watson with a steel gaze. Perhaps a worker scorned, but that makes him all the more suspicious in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock waits and barely five minutes later the same man crosses the window once again. She'd noted she was a regular here. It was foolish to think that the man wouldn't check here for their whereabouts. He's about to announce his discovery when a smooth manicured hand pulls his face back forwards. The small noise of protest is quickly muffled by her mouth on his.

Her lips are incredibly soft but insistent. She commands his attention in every single way but rather than admonishment he feels sparks dancing across their connection lighting a fire in his stomach. His fingers over barely brushing the fabric of her jacket, indecisive for the first time in so long. He teeters on the ledge of the cool certainty of logic and the heat that she's using to ignite his veins. Her own fingers remain clutched to his jaw holding him in place, holding him to her. Briefly he feels the tug of of her other hand on his jacket calling him into action as he kisses her back. Her tongue sweeps teasingly across his lower lip tempting his to join inside her mouth. He can taste the strawberries on her lips with the slightest hint of the green tea. His mind betrays him as it whispers wonderings if he could get a better taste.

Before he can try she releases her hold on him, breath fanning against his face. "There. Now you look less like my bodyguard and more like a possessive boyfriend." Her words are quiet, only for his ears. She gives his cheek a light pat before turning her attention back to her dessert. The bartender winks at her, a job well done, and she flashes him a wolfish grin in return.

He stands abruptly with a potential suspect in mind and all his previous perceptions of Joan Watson shattered beyond repair. He stammers before grabbing her arm and raising her from the seat. To anyone else it likely would've looked like a couple overcome by passion. Rather, he needs to get her to safety as quickly as possible. The man opened fire on an office building he sincerely doubts that he'd be objected to doing the same in a diner.

He tosses cash onto the counter which is more than enough for both of their orders but he's too focused on the back door. She simply follows pushed by the guidance of his hand on her lower back. He pulls the whistle from his side pocket coming to a harsh stop by the side of the road. Blowing the whistle to signal a cab seems to be effective this time as they pretty much get swept up right away.

"Warning would've been nice." Watson deadpans as she climbs in. He's not sure if she means the hasty exit or the whistle but he can't help but echo the sentiment when he remembers the feeling of her lips on his. Dread pools in his stomach as he realizes that he wouldn't entirely mind feeling them again.


	3. Chapter 3

**I am back from the void once again. I may or may not have slipped away while watching 10 seasons of Grey's Anatomy,,,, But I am back just in time for them to announce when season 7 returns. I'll see y'all there for the end! Until then I'll be writing my little heart out.**

**And it was brought to my attention that I accidentally uploaded the same chapter twice but the issue has been fixed! Enjoy the extra chapter!**

When a brunette knocks on his door he half expected it to be Marcus and Kitty, come to chew him out for skipping out on Detective Cortez. However when he spies the gentle makeup and soft pastel colors he recognizes her as Kitty's antithesis, Harper. Watson had warned him that she was inviting the young girl to his home as, not only was the girl her old assistant but she seemed to be the only person Watson implicitly trusts in the building. Overloaded with files Harper shuffles into the living room where Watson is seated, reading glasses perched on her nose as she reads through a list on her laptop.

"I grabbed everything I could on who you could've pissed off since I started and stopped working for you. Bad news, it's a lot. Good news, I narrowed it down." Her tone is light, joking almost. She's likely dealing with the fact that she could've been in that office too. He's long seen people in denial and he makes a mental note to tell Marcus to get her a recommended therapist. She, however, doesn't seem to be exhibiting any signs of shock so he let's her proceed.

While they come over the files he decides to make tea. Pulling a sprig of kale out of the fridge he marches over to Clyde's terrarium gently placing his lunch in his bowl. He freezes mid-movement as he tunes into the conversation from the other room.

"So…" A gentle tone, likely the young brunette.

"So?" The echoing sentiment confirms that he's identified the voices correctly. Against the voice echoing in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Marcus he halts his movements listening in. After all, he won't get a better opportunity than this to learn about Watson. She's the one person he's not been able to read in so long. Microexpressions are controlled, if not they're at least subdued. Truth be told, it's remarkable and he finds himself aching to know more, to learn more about her. It's an urge he hasn't felt towards an individual in far too long.

"He's cute." A moment of silence screams with the image of a quiet stand-off.

"No."

"But-"

"No."

"All I'm saying is- Hear me out." Shifting marks her leaning closer. "You haven't been seeing anyone since Rick. It's been a year and a half. He's cute and he has tattoos. It doesn't have to be a big thing just a little thing or it could be a big thing if you want it to be-"

"Stop." From his vantage point he can see Watson's shadow holding up a hand. "I haven't seen anyone in a year and a half because I've been running the NFL story for a year. I've been busy."

"You said the same thing until Rick came along."

"Enough." She barks, a tone he's only heard her use in the office setting. "You forget why we're here. Someone is trying to kill me, he's finding who. That's it."

"Mhmm." She sounds relatively unphased by the forcefulness behind the words.

"Rick cheated on me with his ex-wife. He was using me to get married before she could. Everything I thought we had was made up by you and his assistant. You said so yourself." A huffed breath. "The only person it worked out for was you and him."

"Not exactly." Another standoff. "We went different paths."

"Different paths."

"We're playing for the same team?"

"Do you ever speak out of metaphors?" Annoyance laces through Watson's tone.

"I'm gay." A shocked beat falls between them. "It ended well at least. We're still like… chill? That's beside the point. Look, I just want you to be happy and I know work makes you happy but I also saw you when you were with Rick. You were giggly and soft!"

"Rude."

"I'm just saying! You liked him… Or the him we made up?" She shifts again. "Just give it some thought? I promise no shenanigans."

The silence that settles over them is much less tense, he can almost picture the small smile on Watson's face. "He is cute."

He nearly jumps when the kettle whistles loudly reminding the women that they're not alone in the house. He shuffles again making himself busy as he grabs mugs and flipping off the boiler. Seemingly satisfied that he's not listening to them, the two continue on a different, much less interesting conversation.

Gathering the supplies he returns to the living room to continue their search.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Day fades to night and back again. Watson falls asleep in a spare bedroom after he deemed it was far too late and unsafe for her to go home. Marcus drops off a new set of clothes for Watson around seven but doesn't stick around for long. She wakes and changes without ceremony as it should be.

Around nine Kitty leaves for the office of Colm McAllister with the consult of Marcus to meet her there. He and Watson are to analyze from home, much to his chagrin. Thanks to their hacker collective Everyone they've gained access to the cameras in the room of the interview. Should Colm be their man they'll be able to know within the hour.

Thus he finds himself set up with Watson watching one of many monitors as Mr. McAllister fervently denies any claim that he is trying to set a hit on Ms. Watson's life. The aforementioned sits in the chair beside him, legs crossed over another. She'd unbuttoned her suit jacket to get more comfortable as her eyes dart across the screen hanging on every word said.

"_Mr. McAllister, were you aware of the fact that Ms. Watson was attacked in her office yesterday?" _

"This is getting nowhere." He huffs. He'd believed the night before that Colm McAllister was their man after some digging. When Watson uncovered that he was using bribery to pull potential athletes to his team he lost everything: his job, his wife, and reputation he spent his entire life to build was vanished and he was shunned in the world of sports. However, from viewing the clips it was all too clear that Mr. McAllister is a coward of a man.

"He's lying." His head snaps to Watson whose eyes haven't moved from the screen. She watches with an intensity he rarely sees in Kitty. It's interesting.

"Why's that?" He could see the signs for himself but he finds himself compelled by her. By what she knows.

"His body is turned towards the door so he clearly wants them to leave, which would be normal except his arms are crossed. He's also looked at the clock on his desk five times in the past two minutes." She stands hands fixing the wrinkles in her clothes absentmindedly. "He knows something but he isn't saying what."

"He's not your attempted killer."

"God no." She scoffs. "His hands are shaking, sign of early onset Parkinson's if I had to guess. There's no way he would've been able to fire that gun and hit my window accurately."

"Remarkable." He nods. These were signs and behaviors it took him months to get Kitty to pick up on and she just named them all off the top of her head. He looks to her with a deep sort of fascination. Her eyes catch his and he can see the shock register in her features. Briefly he wonders when the last time she received a compliment on her work. "You're remarkable." He emphasizes, despite his best judgement.

"You don't need to do that." His eyebrows furrow at her tone. She sounds almost annoyed by his comment. "Don't flatter me."

"I assure you Watson, I only state facts. I think you're extraordinary."

Her lips part, eyes darting across his features searching for any answer to the questions that lie beneath her throat. He's more prepared this time, when she crosses the distance of the room to him. When two perfectly manicured hands take his face into their touch. When her lips crash against his sending every nerve in his body into hyperdrive.

Together they stumble across the room, hands excitedly exploring. He needs to know so much about her. He needs to know how her hair feels between his fingers, the sounds he can tempt from her throat, the feel of her skin against his. Her fingers tug at his shirt pulling it from the tuck as her back collides with the wall. Their feet jarr at the sudden stop but their movements do not cease. His fingers move from her back to her hips feeling the tantalizing flesh barely brushing his fingertips. In a desperate need for air his lips move to her jaw, huffing against her skin. High pitched sighs escape her throat, the interview long forgotten in the heat of passion.

He pulls from her suddenly, the gears in his mind turning all over again. Her fingers are undoing his buttons quickly. "I don't want to stop." He groans against her skin. She laughs, a seductive noise against the shell of his ear. "I don't want to stop." It's a plea this time, begging her to be the sane one. God he needs her to stop him before he acts foolish. He knows she won't when her teeth nip at the spot beneath his jaw, threatening to pull him into the abyss. Her skin is so soft, like velvet but her lips burn him. He catches her hands halting the movement. His eyes meet hers once again as he rests her forehead against his.

In the end it's him who breaks the connection. Against every fiber of his being he steps away from her. "Are you serious?" She scoffs. He can't face her now. Not with the rejection he saw in her eyes, the hurt of being denied again. He crossed a line and all he can think about is how he wishes to touch her again. Guilt laces around his throat and pulls tightly.

"I need to focus." His words come out cold, detached.

"You're right. We need to figure out what Mr. McAllister knows and-"

"We don't need to do anything." He snaps. "No offense Ms. Watson but right now I need peace and quiet, or did you forget that it's your life that is at stake?" He pushes her away because he can't risk getting too close. He can't become attached. Not now. He needs to focus so that he can find her attempted killer.

"No. No I didn't." Her heels echo clearly off the Brownstone floor as she grabs her coat. The slam of the door pierces him to the core but he must remain unphased.

He takes a deep breath delving back into his work.


	4. Chapter 4

**I bounced back and forth with what I should post today, the finale of Elementary. It's been a wild ride that I honestly don't intend on getting off of for a while. I'll still be sticking around while friends finish the series as they're still way back in season 4. In the mean time I thought it'd only be fitting to match an end with another end. This is the final chapter of A Dance With Death! This fic has been so much fun to write as I got the grant to write Watson a little out of character. It's truly been a blast and I hope y'all stick around to see what else I got coming. **

Sherlock wakes to something rough colliding with his head. His eyes snap open to a furious Kitty lingering over him with a newspaper in one hand. Two more blinks revealed a concerned, but also angry Harper standing in the background. He narrows his eyes at the two girls sitting up.

"You let her leave?" Kitty nearly shouts. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm not sure I could've made her stay if I tried." He tries for sarcasm which Harper seems to agree with, but Kitty is less amused.

"You do remember someone is trying to kill her right? That you prevented two attempts on her life?" Regret fills his body as he runs his hands over his face. He had risked her life for his comfort. Rather stupid of him. He considers calling Detective Bell but he really can't risk another probation from work. Last time he and Kitty almost killed each other in their boredom. He grabs the closest shirt shrugging it on before muttering an apology to the two younger women. He left without an invitation for them to follow on the quest to find Watson.

He goes to her work first, unlikely that she'd go there. She's not an unintelligent woman, surely she'd avoid there. The office building is closed down for today, police had been by earlier to collect Otis's things, not exactly fans of lingering eyes. He can't say he likes the nosy citizens that plague crime scenes either but it makes for a much more obvious atmosphere if she were to come here.

He takes his time scaling the stairs as the elevator is still out of service. He checks each floor carefully before finally reaching her level. He combs the area just for safekeeping. Nothing seems out of place other than the cover marking to empty window frame. He spies an open drawer that he doesn't recall being that way before. He peeks slowly, making sure there was still nobody around as he did so.

The drawer seems to house a bunch of files from her previous interviews and articles over time. Yet they seem in disarray. Watson doesn't strike him as an unorganized woman, not in the slightest. His guard slides up as he flicks on his flashlight. The file of McAllister appears to be missing from the marked ones. He pulls out his phone to take a photo when it starts chiming.

Watson's number flashes across the screen much to his relief. He answers without hesitation holding the device to his ear. "Watson, good you're still alive." He tries not to let the emotion in his voice carry over.

"I know who's trying to kill me." The urgency in her voice makes him pick up his head.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine for now but you need to come quick. I'll send you the location."

He hangs up the phone allowing the quiet to rush over him again. He waits 3 beats and it announces the arrival of the message. He memorizes it quickly before deleting it. It would be a race to get to her first if the perpetrator was watching either of their phones.

He arrives at the location in record time barely glancing at the cabbie as he tosses him his pay. He doesn't even knock as he barges into the suburban home. The walls hold frames of a family vaguely resembling Watson. If he had to guess, he'd say this is her brother's home. Judging by the pile up of mail on the doorstep, the family is on holiday.

"Watson!" He shouts her name as not to get attacked by the woman lingering around the corner with, judging from her shadow, a child's baseball bat in hand. She steps out with a soothed look on her face. Her hand abandons the bat and in that moment he's not sure if she's going to hug him or hit him. She appears to settle on neither, instead gesturing to the living room. "You said you knew who was trying to harm you?"

If she is disappointed by him jumping straight into business, she doesn't show it. "I was still unnerved by McAllister's interview. I knew he was lying but there was no way he could have taken the shots at my office or been able to access the elevator chute to cut the cable with his early onset Parkinson's. So I did some digging," She grabs her glasses off the table and settles back into the spot it looked like she was occupying prior to his arrival. "Initially it looked like stuff we already knew, his wife divorced him after he couldn't pick up a job, he's been shunned in the sports world for cheating, and he was diagnosed with early onset Parkinson's two weeks ago."

He settles in beside her glancing at her work, he notes privately that she hadn't used orange highlighter which is an oddly pleasing detail that he stores in the back of his mind. However, he also notices that none of the papers laying out match the ones taken from her drawer. "We've already ruled out McAllister." His tone is a mix of condescending and sympathetic. It's clear the effort was there, however it looks more like effort wasted to him.

"We've ruled out a McAllister." His head snaps to her so she continues explaining. "Meet Liam McAllister, son of Colm and Bella." She lays a photo out of a cleanly shaven guy, appearing in his early twenties. The features are incredibly similar to the father's, including the cold look in his eye. "He got an honorable discharge after his father was diagnosed and needed immediate financial and emotional assistance. Since his father lost his job, he had no assistance or insurance to care for his condition. He needed the discharge to come home to take care of him."

"What about the wife?"

She lays out copies of phone records with a raised eyebrow. It's a challenge and he can't help the corners of his lips beginning to turn up. "The wife missed six calls from the husband, thirteen from her son. She clearly has no interest in helping."

"So he comes after the woman who destroyed his family. That's you." Silence falls between the two of them, heavy and accusatory. Her eyes fall to the floor, any teasing nature had dissipated in that moment. For a brief second he watches the mask fall from the woman hardened by the nature of her job, her life. All the grief of the lives she's destroyed weighs heavily on her shoulders, she's just excellent at hiding it.

He's not sure what possesses him to but he reaches forward, taking her hand in his. His fingers curl into hers like they're meant to be there. Her eyes meet his and the vulnerability staring back at him is almost enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His other hand acts on it's own brushing a fallen hair back from her face.

She leans into his touch, closing her eyes with a soft sigh. His thumb swipes over her cheekbone softly before he pulls away. She offers him a small smile at the comforting gesture. He's almost foolish enough to fall into her touch once again.

"What a touching sight." The two of them spring apart at the new voice announcing itself. The man from the photo stands in the doorway, the gun in his hand pointed towards the two of them. "Hands up," He does as he says, nodding to Watson to do the same. All the while, he's sizing up the items in the room that could potentially protect them, as well as any escape routes.

He steps around the couch grabbing a pillow off of the couch, his jaw tightens thinking about the family walking in on the scene. Perhaps two overexcited children, yearning for the feeling of their own bed stumbling upon the scene of their aunt and a strange man on the couch shot.

From the corner of his eye he can see the same thoughts racing through Watson's mind. The look of absolute fear is enough to drive him into action. He waits until the man inevitably goes on a tirade because of course he does. The driving action in any of these situations is that the perpetrator has the absolute need to prove that he's smarter than them. Truthfully it's dreadfully annoying. Unless he's doing it himself, the simple truth of it is that he is smarter than them.

Finally he makes the grand gesture with the gun, the perfect opportunity. He takes no more than two bounding steps, dropping his shoulder to drive into the man's gut. He hears a shot go off, hopefully into the ceiling. Sherlock twists his wrist sending the gun skittering across the floor. He knows there's not a chance he's winning a hand to hand fight with a trained army man. He just needs enough time for Watson to get a hold of a phone to call the police.

Just as quickly as he's tackled the man, Sherlock is flipped onto his back with a pained groan. He narrowly moves away from a punch to the nose, taking it to the cheek instead. He grunts trying to pull away from the grip, get an eye on Watson, anything. The man is too heavy to shake from him but so long as Liam's attention is on him, Watson is safe.

The sound of glass shattering causes him to flinch away. The weight of Liam McAllister folds to the side revealing a wide eyed Watson standing over the two of them. From the look of the glass, he'd deduce that she struck him with the vase that once sat on the mantle. Her hands tremble as she stares at him. "Are you okay?" She asks, breathless. Liam is unconscious, that much he can tell so he nods jerkily.

He spies the red staining the once pink blouse and his heart drops to his stomach. He's on his feet in an instance ignoring the pain that blossoms in his head. He presses his fingers to the wound on her hip, his eyes scanning her face for any signs of shock. She flinches away from his touch at first, of course she does.

"Sherlock, I'm okay." She tries to tell him but he's not listening. He needs to stop the bleeding. "Sherlock," He needs to stop it all before he loses someone else. He'd so nearly lost Kitty, his brother, Irene… "Sherlock!" She grips his face forcing him to meet her eyes. "I'm okay. It's just a scratch."

He looks again with clearer eyes. Sure enough the blood seems to be less than he initially thought, the tear pattern revealing that it'd barely hit her. He drops his head letting out a relieved breath. He feels her forehead press to his, her fingers caressing his face until his breath slows and his heart rate falls back to his normal.

Even as the sirens pull up to the home they remain frozen in this spot, finding comfort in each other's touch. It's not until he hears Marcus come up to the door that he breaks away. His eyes never leave her even as they take her to the ambulance to stitch up her side. Not until she's driven away by Marcus, per request of Sherlock himself.

He waits until all the cops have cleared the scene, until all people who lurked at the scene seemed to have lost interest. He slips back into the house long after the place had been cleaned. He scribbles a check leaving it on the table with an apologetic note for the damage to their property.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A week later he finds himself bouncing his leg waiting for Harper to leave Watson's office. It's not common that he actually waits for an appointment but he has an important question. He need not have her influenced by him barging in on another project. So instead he focuses his efforts trying to pick out who in the office is going to be fired next.

"She's going to say yes, you know." Kitty plops down beside him handing him a cup of coffee from the shop on the corner. He takes an experimental sip and deems it worthy, nodding her his thanks.

"You don't know that."

"Don't I?" She takes the seat across from him crossing her legs as she sits. "She enjoyed working with you, even a dunce could see it. Plus she's good at it? Like naturally good at it. You don't find those on a whim."

"I'm aware." He'd spent the first two years working in New York looking for an apprentice. Finding Kitty, well just like Watson she just sort of fell into his lap with a case of her own.

"You don't need to ask her to start out right away. She can just be an irregular like Mason or Harlan."

"You don't like Harlan."

She scoffs at that, feigning insult. "I don't not like him. I just find his methods… questionable." She takes a drink of her much too sugary coffee, gesturing with her free hand. "Besides, he did accuse me of stealing you away. He insulted my character first."

He tries not to smile at her childish defense but he's taught her well enough that she can see it in his gaze. "Who's the other coffee for?" The question is innocent enough but he knows the answer isn't Watson. It's a near copy of her own caramel frappuccino sugar bomb, but instead of caramel chocolate and Kitty's own is lacking the whipped cream topping.

"Watson." He knew the defensive answer was coming. He raises an eyebrow, challenging her.

"That does not look like a skim milk latte." He tilts his head at her. He has a sneaking suspicion but it's not until Harper comes out, that he gets his confirmation. He stands up unceremoniously marching to her office. In the reflection of one of the office windows he spies Kitty passing the coffee to Harper with a shy smile on her face. He can't help a small smile of his own gracing his face before he rounds the corner.

She's focused on her laptop when he steps through the door, long dark hair pulled away from her face in a half updo with the rest draped over her shoulders. She notices him before he says a word, "Sherlock." The warm smile she grants him does little to ease his nerves, "Why are you here? You're not having issues prosecuting McAllister are you?" One of her hands drifts to the spot on her side, still sore from being scraped by the bullet.

"No. None of the sort." She relaxes back into the chair again. "Rather I have a proposition for you."

Her eyebrows raise in curiosity. The ghost of a flirty smile teases at her lips flustering him more than usual. "Oh really?" She leans back now, the chair spinning with the movement. She's challenging him and part of him wants to give in. But he has more important matters to tend to.

"I want to work with you." That catches her off guard, freezing in her spot.

"What?"

"I came to realize that working with you on the case was rewarding. I'd like your help on future cases, should you have me."

"So I'd quit my job and become a detective with you?"

"Not quite. I have several contacts, irregulars, if you will. I contact them when I need they're expertise. If you would permit, I'd like you to join my contacts."

"Okay." He shakes his head, unsure he's heard her correctly.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll join." Once again she's managed to surprise him. Normally his irregulars take a tad more convincing. "Is that all you were going to ask?" For a moment he considers a proposition of a different kind, an experiment.

"No, that was all." He turns to exit, stopping the movement before looking back at her again. "We'll speak soon Watson."

"I hope so."

And truth be told, he does too.


End file.
